It did not, of course, always end so sensationally; nor, perhaps, on the
whole, so untragically. Charity had always suspected that the shunned
Julia's fate might have its compensations. There were others, worse
endings that the village knew of, mean, miserable, unconfessed; other
lives that went on drearily, without visible change, in the same cramped
setting of hypocrisy. But these were not the reasons that held her
back. Since the day before, she had known exactly what she would feel
if Harney should take her in his arms: the melting of palm into palm and
mouth on mouth, and the long flame burning her from head to foot. But
mixed with this feeling was another: the wondering pride in his liking
for her, the startled softness that his sympathy had put into her heart.
Sometimes, when her youth flushed up in her, she had imagined yielding
like other girls to furtive caresses in the twilight; but she could not
so cheapen herself to Harney. She did not know why he was going; but
since he was going she felt she must do nothing to deface the image of
her that he carried away.
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